


Appendicitis

by Wicked42



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Appendicitis, Established Relationship, F/F, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Passing mention of vomiting, Whump, and scared, angela is exasperated, appendix, fareeha being stubborn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-08
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-14 20:14:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29922237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wicked42/pseuds/Wicked42
Summary: Angela's away on a mission, and Fareeha comes down with appendicitis. Which wouldn't be a huge deal--except she refuses to admit anything's really wrong.Or, Fareeha is a stubborn fool and Angela saves her life.
Relationships: Fareeha "Pharah" Amari/Angela "Mercy" Ziegler
Comments: 4
Kudos: 41





	Appendicitis

**Author's Note:**

> I... have nothing to say about this. XD Except a huge thanks, as always, to my beta, Alettepegasus!

_ There’s a very real chance _ , Fareeha thought dimly, listening to Angela shouting over her feverish, deadened body,  _ that Angela might never go on a mission without me again _ .

Of course, it all assumed Fareeha survived long enough to see it. 

And based on the pain, that wasn’t looking likely.

* * *

It started mild, as most life-threatening things do.

Fareeha was sipping coffee in the kitchen, glancing at the clock and wondering whether it was too early to call Angela for their morning check-in, when the first wave of pain hit. She swallowed a gasp and went rigid, bracing herself against the granite countertop as Lena bustled around the kitchen, whistling a tune.

The pain faded, leaving Fareeha very confused—and somewhat concerned.

But it didn’t seem intensive. Actually, it kind of felt like cramps, centered on her right side. A wave of nausea swept over her, and she pushed her coffee back.

“Going to call Angela, love?” Lena asked, chipper as always. “Tell her I said hi!”

Before Fareeha could comment, Lena zipped from the kitchen.

Another wave of pain slammed into Fareeha, making her hunch over her mug, draw shallow breaths until she felt like she could move again. It, too, faded.

The memory didn’t.

Feeling uneasy, Fareeha headed back to her bedroom. She didn’t expect cramps until at least next week, but there was a very real chance it’d be one of  _ those  _ days. Probably, it was a good thing Angela wasn’t here; Fareeha was always fairly miserable company that time of the month.

* * *

It worsened.

Angela called after a particularly nasty bout of nausea, one that had Fareeha hunching over the toilet, cool porcelain soothing her warm face. So, not cramps, then. Or if they were, it was worse than any Fareeha had ever had.

Probably the flu. Fareeha had the distant hope that she didn’t get anyone else sick.

The cheery ringtone Angela assigned for herself filled the bedroom, and Fareeha almost let it go to voicemail. The only reason she didn’t—only reason she wrenched herself away from the bathroom, fighting a wave of dizziness as she staggered to the phone—was because Angela was a worrier.

And maybe, just maybe, a small part of Fareeha’s mind told her  _ now _ was the time to worry their resident doctor.

Another wave of nausea churned in her gut as she eased onto the mattress. She swallowed hard and answered the phone, rasped, “Angela?”

A pause, then a sharp voice. “Fareeha, what’s wrong?” Angela slipped into diagnosis mode before Fareeha could reply. “Are you injured? Ill? You sound terrible.”

“Just—” Fareeha choked off as another wave of pain slammed into her. It felt like fire igniting her stomach, and she curled into herself, barely having the sensibility to finish talking. “Just a stomach bug, I think. Maybe the flu.”

“Baptiste is on call while I’m gone. He’ll be able to—”

“N-No offense, Angela,” Fareeha gasped. “But I’m not really in the mood to entertain Baptiste. Or—Or anyone.”

Angela was obviously concerned, and it made her tone cross. “Fareeha, you have a bad habit of hiding when you should be seeking help. I can’t be there right now, so I need to know you’ll take care of yourself.”

Unfortunately for Angela, “take care of yourself” had very different meanings between the two of them. So when Fareeha replied, “I will,” she honestly meant it.

Just… alone.

Angela sighed. “I love you. I’ll try to get home soon, okay? Get some rest until then.”

Another stab of pain, another strangled breath. Fareeha buried her forehead into her sweat-soaked pillow, but managed to grit out, “I will. Love you.”

Slowly, almost reluctantly, Angela hung up.

Things only got worse from there.

* * *

A rapping knock on the door cut through her low-level moan. Fareeha wasn’t even sure when that started, but she definitely noticed its absence. She was curled on the bathroom floor, shivering against the waves of pain that rolled over her—her entire abdomen felt like it was being crushed between the steel jaws of heavy machinery, slowly and surely squeezing until she couldn’t bear it.

She hadn’t blacked out yet, but it felt like a near thing.

The vomiting had stopped, finally,  _ finally _ , but the heaving hadn’t. Fareeha tried to muscle down another wave as the knock grew louder, more insistent.

Issue was, Fareeha preferred to care for herself alone. Better not to inconvenience anyone. Her mother always used to make a huge deal of minor illnesses, giving Fareeha emergency-level care for common colds, and she absolutely could not handle the drama of an entire Overwatch base rallying for something like this.

So when an anonymous knock sounded on the door, Fareeha’s first instinct wasn’t to call for help.

Instead, she shouted, “What?”

The word nearly broke her, and she gasped for a few seconds while another wave of pain had her clenching tighter around her abdomen.

“Ah, I just wanted to check in,” a male voice said, accented in French. Baptiste.

A flash of irritation wound into Fareeha’s chest, even though her heart knew Angela was just trying to help. It didn’t help the fact that her help interrupted Fareeha’s pity party—conversations like this required actual effort now.

But on Angela’s orders, Baptiste wasn’t just going to  _ go away. _

Fareeha pushed upright, grabbing the bathroom sink with slick fingers to haul herself upright. She doubled over almost immediately, her vision graying as outright agony washed over her. She staggered to the door, spent a bare second wiping the sweat from her face, before wrenching it open.

“It’s fine,” she said, her voice cutting. “I just need sleep.”

Baptiste’s eyes widened. “Ah, you look—what are your symptoms?”

“Flu,” she muttered, leaning against the doorframe.

“Nausea, fever, aches, chills?”

“Check.”

Now he frowned, like he wasn’t truly sure he believed her.

She felt another wave of nausea coming on. “It’s  _ fine _ . Tell Angela I’ll be better before s-she gets home.” A shudder wracked through her, and it took all her energy not to gasp again.

“She’s coming home early,” he replied, crossing his arms. “But I want you to visit me right away if anything changes.”

An order. The soldier in Fareeha automatically replied, “Yes, sir.” She kind of hated how immediate that reaction was. The childish, sick part of her brain whined,  _ but you’re not Angelaaaa _ . As if the specific doctor made a difference in care.

But Fareeha was stalwartly in denial. In her mind, this was just a very, very bad flu.

Baptiste hesitated, clearly unwilling to leave.

So she slammed the door in his face.

* * *

By the time Fareeha realized this  _ wasn’t  _ a bug, it was too late.

She physically couldn’t move off the floor, couldn’t think past the outright agony screaming through her abused body, couldn’t attempt anything but a desperate moan as she tried crawling to the door.

Her vision blacked out before she made it, and for a blissful moment, there was peace.

* * *

Angela came home.

She shouldn’t have come home early, but she did—a tense conversation with Winston and frantically shuffled keynote speakers, and Angela was on the jet home. Baptiste met her at the plane, hurrying inside on her heels.

“It’s not good, Angie,” he replied, shaking his head. “Looked worse than the flu. But she refused any help.”

“She’s like that,” Angela muttered, picking up her pace.

* * *

The two medics were composed in the ways of battle—and in that mindset, they were both prepared to find Fareeha collapsed on the carpet, still as death. It still rattled Angela to her core, even as she surged forward, breathless seconds where her heart pounded as she felt for Fareeha’s pulse.

There. Thready, barely noticeable under burning skin, but  _ there _ .

“Get a stretcher and someone to carry it,” Angela shouted to Baptiste. A pause, a dark thought, then, “Then prep the medbay for surgery. I think it’s her appendix.”

Baptiste cursed in furious French and sprinted out of the bedroom.

“You stupid fool,” Angela said, not unlovingly, as she cradled Fareeha’s sweat-slicked cheek in her palm, running her thumb over the woman’s closed eyelid. In that moment, Angela was immensely grateful that every single nerve had screamed at her to abandon the conference, the mission at hand, to get home.

Fareeha would absolutely be dead otherwise.

* * *

Fareeha groaned awake almost twenty-four hours later, eyelids fluttering open to stare in bemusement at the white ceiling of the medbay. She’d laid on this bed often enough to recognize it, although this time, she was just confused. The events leading up to this moment had fallen from her mind.

“The next time I recommend you get help, stop being a  _ gehirnverweigerer _ and listen.”

Fareeha could barely understand English, much less Angela’s German insults. She turned her head to face her wife, her doctor, her love, and smiled slightly. Her words were sappy, almost slurred. “You’re home.”

Angela’s anger dissolved. “I am.” She perched in the seat beside Fareeha’s bed, intertwining their hands. “And you’re incredibly lucky,  _ mein schatz. _ ”

Slowly, the memories were returning. Fareeha was silent for a moment, sorting through them, before saying, “So… not the flu.”

“Ruptured appendix,” Angela replied. “You have Baptiste in a tizzy that he didn’t diagnose it sooner. I told him it was well and truly your fault for being so stubborn.”

Fareeha laughed, which shifted to a groan. She lifted her hand towards the pain in her stomach, feeling stitches underneath the thin medbay blanket. But compared to what she’d endured  _ before  _ this, it was a tickle more than anything.

Angela still pushed to her feet, checking Fareeha’s IV and chart before slipping another dose of—something—into her catheter.

“Drugging me?” Fareeha mumbled, already feeling sleep tug at her eyelids again. Whatever that had been, it worked fast. “Knew I p-picked the right—woman.” Her words were slurring again.

Angela rolled her eyes, but pressed a kiss to Fareeha’s forehead. “Yes. Smart move, choosing a doctor. Now, if you can minimize the time I have to spend inside you, that’d be excellent.”

“That’s what she—”

“Don’t.”

Fareeha fell asleep with a smile on her lips.


End file.
